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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27407449">Strikesgiving 2020 - #1</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarlGreyForMe/pseuds/EarlGreyForMe'>EarlGreyForMe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Strikesgiving 2020 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:54:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,437</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27407449</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarlGreyForMe/pseuds/EarlGreyForMe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Strike solves the mystery of The Missing Jumper.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Robin Ellacott &amp; Cormoran Strike</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Strikesgiving 2020 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002348</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Strikesgiving 2020 - #1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello, fandom!!  I’ve been reading your wonderful works for the past month (and may I say THANK YOU for getting me through the month of October) — and I’ve decided to jump into this awesome pool. I ask your forgiveness in advance, as I am *not* a writer, but 2020 keeps making the unthinkable happen — so why not this, too?  Feedback that is constructive is always welcome. 😊</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Close the door.” </p>
<p>Max’s friends had gotten a bit loud over the last hour and she didn’t think Strike would enjoy shouting over the crowd. </p>
<p>She’d completely forgotten that he was to stop by and handoff the telephoto lens for her surveillance job on Monday. </p>
<p>There may have been a glass (or three) of Prosecco consumed during Max’s impromptu Sunday dinner gathering. His new work friends were a lovely and hilarious bunch who found Robin utterly fascinating. The non-stop laughter, accompanied by delicious Thai food and wine, constituted just enough of a distraction that she not only forgot about Strike coming by but she also missed his multiple texts (saying he was on his way and then standing outside her door) as she had left her mobile buried in her bag. She was genuinely caught off guard to find him standing there when she answered the door. </p>
<p>He saw her startled look, heard the party in full swing, and held up the lens by way of explanation. She smiled and motioned for him to follow her. It was easier than shouting over the din. She wanted to show him some photos she’d taken yesterday on the job; they might just be enough to close one of their cases. She headed down the hall, as the pics were on her phone and her phone was in her room. </p>
<p>Strike had never been in her bedroom before. While she was searching for her phone, he took a second to look around, hoping that was ok. I mean, she wouldn’t have brought him in here if this was private and strictly off-limits, right?  Before he had a chance to over-think it, his eyes were pulled in the direction of something shiny. It was a silver donkey balloon, devoid of all helium but neatly pressed flat, on the nightstand on the far side of the bed. Just to the right was the green dress he’d given her several years ago, hanging on the inside of her open wardrobe door. Further down the same wall, sitting on a simple desk, was a photo of her with a tender smile, arms wrapped around a large brown dog. The sight of it all made his heart swell just a bit and he cast his eyes downward, feeling a bit intrusive but also feeling quite pleased that she’d invited him in — and it was then that he saw it. </p>
<p>His jumper. His maroon jumper that had mysteriously disappeared sometime over the last few weeks. It was lying on the back of her desk chair. </p>
<p>She looked up at him, having found the photos on her phone, and saw the perplexed look on his face. </p>
<p>“Nice jumper,” he said with a slightly furrowed brow. </p>
<p>She looked over at the chair and then proceeded to turn roughly the same shade as the jumper. There was no getting around it. She’d been caught. </p>
<p>“I could have got you one for Christmas if I’d known you liked it so much.”  The slightest hint of a grin lurked at the corners of his mouth. </p>
<p>She would have, could have, should have been mortified — but three glasses of bubbly give a gal a bit of moxie. And who needs regret when you can have moxie?  So she rolled the dice. </p>
<p>“I think it’s more my color.” Her eyes sparkled and dared him to challenge her. </p>
<p>Strike choked out a laugh.  He wondered if this exquisite angel would ever cease to surprise him. “You do, do you? Might have to take it out of your wages.” </p>
<p>She giggled — and his heart melted a bit. She could see he wasn’t mad, confused maybe but not mad, and so she began to try to conjure up something that might possibly resemble a plausible explanation. </p>
<p>“Well ... it got so cold last Thursday. I came back to the office that afternoon, after tailing Saville Row and before tailing Mrs. Jones, and you weren’t there ... and I didn’t think you’d mind my borrowing it for just a few minutes to warm up ... and then Barclay called to say Mrs. Jones was on the move earlier than expected and I dashed out to catch up with her before I even realized I still had it on.” </p>
<p>“Last Thursday?”  As in ten days ago?</p>
<p>“Yeah. Well. It’s ... been really cold.” </p>
<p>“You don’t say.”  </p>
<p>“Yeah .. and,” emboldened by the bubbly, “I like the way it smells.”  </p>
<p>He narrowed his eyes at her. </p>
<p>“It’s warm and soft and very snuggly.” </p>
<p>“That’s what it smells like?” </p>
<p>“No. That’s how it feels.”  She looked at him with soft, warm eyes and said no more. There was just a long, lingering stare. </p>
<p>He said nothing, gave nothing away. Feeling suddenly awkward, she shrugged it off saying “Sometimes a girl just needs to feel all warm and soft and snuggly.”  </p>
<p>Fortunately or unfortunately, alcohol-induced moxie has a short shelf life and within a moment or two, reason got the better of her and she moved on. She crossed the room to show him the surveillance photos on her phone and discuss the implications for the case. They reviewed four good shots, decided to show them to the client, discussed the schedule for Monday and then —</p>
<p>“Do I get it back?” Strike seemed to be asking earnestly. He noted that her mood changed a moment ago and was not sure how to proceed. He was certain that she couldn’t possibly long for his scent, not the way he longed for hers when they were apart. </p>
<p>“Yes. Of course. Sorry.” She rushed to hand him the pullover and he wasted not a moment before putting it on. </p>
<p>“I should say hi to Max. It’s only polite. But I’m going to pop outside for a quick smoke first. Good thing I’m now properly dressed for the winter weather.” With a proper smirk on his face, he opened the bedroom door and headed out, cigarettes already in hand. </p>
<p>Fuck. He saw. He knows. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK.  What was I thinking bringing him in here??  Clearly I wasn’t. Clearly. Oh, good grief. Ok. Ok. Get a grip. It’s ok. Who cares? Really. Who cares?  Seriously. I was cold, I needed a sweater. What’s the big deal? (I didn’t bring it back for a week and a half — and I didn’t even tell him I’d taken it after he asked me if I’d seen it; that is the big deal) Ok. Enough. Breathe. Let it go. It’s ok. It’s totally ok. He didn’t seem to be cross. It’s fine. It’s all fine. Let’s get another glass of Prosecco. Yes. Yes. Another glass. And try very hard to forget that any of this ever happened. </p>
<p>Strike returned, shed his coat but not his jumper, found Max, gave his regards and then ... somehow ended up sticking around for the next three hours. </p>
<p>Robin, thoroughly confused by Strike suddenly taking on the role of Fully-Social Party Guest, gave up and decided just to roll with it. She had no idea what on earth was happening and decided it doesn’t matter anyway. He didn’t appear to be trying to taunt or torment her ...  but what he was up to, she hadn’t got a clue. </p>
<p>When he finally declared that it was time for him to leave, Robin, though weary from a combination of bubbly, embarrassment, and a truly bizarre evening, still felt it was necessary to walk Strike to the door. It was only polite after all, she thought, but Wolfgang followed her and danced at her feet. “Do you need to go out, love,” she asked while giving him a little nuzzle behind the ears. “I’ll bet you do. It’s been a while since, hasn’t it? Ok, love. We’ll get your lead. Hold on just a sec.” </p>
<p>She looked up and saw Strike holding out his jumper. He must have taken it off while she was looking at her four-legged friend. </p>
<p>“You better take this. I wouldn’t want you to be cold.”  There was a hint of something dancing in his eyes but Robin couldn’t tell what it was. </p>
<p>“Oh, no,” she said, almost backing away. “I can go grab a sweatshirt and my heavy coat. It’s fine. I’ll be fine. It’s no problem. Really. It’s totally fine.” </p>
<p>He gave her the softest smile, gazed at her with the most tender look, put the jumper in her hands and kissed her cheek goodnight. </p>
<p>The door closed behind him and Robin waited only a moment before she could no longer resist taking a good, long drag on the freshly-topped up pile of scented yarn in her hands. </p>
<p>Smoke. Lavender. Faint musk. Whisky. </p>
<p>Heaven.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Again, apologies for any/all blunders I’ve made while I figure out this whole writing fiction thing. Practice makes perfect, right??  🙈😁</p></blockquote></div></div>
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